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And wear a gladder faith in what we gain . .
Through bitter experience, compensation sweet,
Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet now,—
As tender surely for the suffering world,
But quiet,—sitting at the wall to learn,
Content, henceforth, to do the thing I can:
For, though as powerless, said I, as a stone,
A stone can still give shelter to a worm,
And it is worth while being a stone for that:
There’s hope, Aurora.’
‘Is there hope for me?
For me?—and is there room beneath the stone
For such a worm?—And if I came and said . .
What all this weeping scarce will let me say,
And yet what women cannot say at all,
But weeping bitterly . . (the pride keeps up,
Until the heart breaks under it) . . I love,—
I love you, Romney’ . . .
‘Silence!’ he exclaimed,
‘A woman’s pity sometimes makes her mad.
A man’s distraction must not cheat his soul
To take advantage of it. Yet, ’tis hard—
Farewell, Aurora.’
‘But I love you, sir:
And when a woman says she loves a man,
The man must hear her, though he love her not.
Which . . hush! . . he has leave to answer in his turn;
She will not surely blame him. As for me,
You call it pity,—think I’m generous?
’Twere somewhat easier, for a woman proud,